FicWad

December 13, 1915

I have taken my first wound of this war. I was hit in the shoulder by a bullet. Damn Austrians. At least it was my left shoulder. That is the only reason I am able to write. The doctors dug it out, and told me to just take it easy. I overheard them saying that they might send me back. I pray they do. I fear that my next wound could be the death of me.

The Choir
A choir sings
of bullets and death.
The sounds of metal pings
and last breaths’.

The dead lie,
mud ridden bodies,
yet the birds still fly,
they sing, embodies.

We fight, though grim,
through muddy hell we prevail,
all in the future dim,
we fight, tooth and nail.